


of all the places in the world

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Re-posting some old deleted works.While trying to conduct an impossible inception on Robert Fischer, Arthur needs to figure out how to exist without his pack. Meanwhile, Eames has always been a lone wolf, which intrigues and infuriates Arthur.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was mostly written in 2011 on the Inception kink meme, where I left it abandoned for some time after until I moved it here to AO3.
> 
> The [original prompt](https://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=47225520) was: “I've seen a lot of prompts for Arthur as an omega werewolf where he needs to be knotted and tied by Eames. I'm asking for the reverse, where Eames is the omega that has been bulking himself up so that he doesn't appear to be an omega and doesn't want to admit that he goes into heat every so often. But when his cycle hits, all he wants to do is get on his hands and knees and -present- himself to Arthur, begging to be fucked, tied, and mated.”
> 
> The fic takes place in an alternate timeline from canon where events are changed largely because the team is filled with supernatural creatures. I borrowed werewolf ideas liberally from Patricia Briggs, Annette Curtis Klause, and Carrie Vaughn.

For years, Arthur has been happy with his position as Cobb’s second-in-command. Every pack needs a second to make sure that shit gets done and Arthur has always been extremely talented when it comes to efficiency.

It only takes a month after Eames arrives for it all to go to pieces despite Arthur’s best efforts. In just thirty days, Arthur goes from obedient beta to a snarling, unthinking thing with Cobb’s scruff gripped tightly in his jaws and Cobb’s blood wet and bitter against his tongue.

 

 

 

**Day One**

Arthur was young and new to dreaming when he first met Eames. Dom had introduced him as the best forger in the business and then added, with a bit of a growl in his tone and Eames right there to hear, that lone wolves were not to be treated like pack. Intuitively, Arthur knew Dom meant that Eames was not to be trusted. Arthur, still a little naïve back then, had tried to deflect the growing tension by saying, "There doesn't seem to be any shortage of werewolves in dreamshare."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized that they weren't quite what he meant to say to both. Eames’ spine stiffened and, more importantly, Dom looked disappointed in him. Arthur readied himself to clarify, ready to backtrack and put things right. Before he can get the words out to correct his error, Eames interjected with cold eyes and colder voice, "Who better suited to forging than a monster who can take multiple forms even in reality? I'll be out of your way before you know it, darling."

Like a harbinger of things to come, the job disintegrated out from underneath them scant days after the uncomfortable meeting. And Eames had disappeared without so much as a word.

It hadn’t bothered Arthur. He might have wondered where a lone wolf has to go, where Eames called ‘home’ despite being alone. It was his job anyway, so he asked around. One week he would hear that Eames was in the Maldives, then Queenstown, Paris, Hong Kong, Monte Carlo, Davao City, Las Vegas. . . But the meaning of being a lone wolf never really sunk in. Wolves might be pack creatures, but Eames was perfectly self-contained and self-sufficient. He changed cities like they were shirts.

Just because Arthur thrived on the company of fellow wolves didn't mean Eames was the same way. That was answer enough.

After all, Arthur had his pack and other things to worry about. Dom and Mal just had a small litter and Miles was present more often than not. It felt like family. Maybe even stronger than family, since they chose each other.

He thought that right up until it all crumbled around their ears. In a way, dreaming took it all from them. They only managed to escape with Dom's tattered sanity and Arthur trailing at his heels. Mal was lost to her personal nightmares and the pups to legalities. The loss, as consuming and total as it was, might have been bearable if Mal hadn't stalked Dom through his dreams like the moon after the sun, accent curling wickedly around the words 'loup-garou'—because she had always refused to adopt the English ‘werewolf’—and asking about the children. If the loneliness was ordinarily crushing, then the constant reminder of the lost pack members is so devastating that Arthur could barely breathe. How Dom could stand it and keep moving forward, much less plan an inception, he never dares to ask.

 _Maybe,_  he thinks now,  _just maybe, that fortitude is what separates the alphas from the betas._

So Arthur does what he can to help. For some reason, the image of Dom finally succumbing to the weight of his grief and loneliness lurks in his mind, and spurs him into scrambling to obey every whim and command even as Dom grates his nerves.

Dom had created an insane schedule, but Arthur navigated the headache of securing an empty space in a foreign country, rounding up an assortment of furniture that won’t leave their backs gnarled, cleaning everything so the musty smell isn’t too overwhelming without complaint. They are standing in the warehouse for the first time when Dom says: "We need Eames."

"Eames?" Arthur asks, memory immediately offering up how Eames had looked at the very moment he said ‘monster.’ Arthur recalls how Eames’ lip curled around the word darkly, how his eyes glinted and his jaw clenched. "Why Eames? There are plenty of good thieves, Cobb."

Arthur should have known better than to disagree. Even for an alpha, Dom has always been confident in his own ideas. And to Dom’s credit, about half the time his ideas do turn out to be genius. Even the harebrained ones still manage to somehow have a high chance of success.

Dom says, commanding, "We need a forger. And you're going to go get him."

Arthur swallows back all his arguments with distaste. If nothing else, he is certain that his very relevant, rational complaints would only be willfully ignored anyway.

 

 

 

**Day Three**

Not all wolves could search Eames out by scent in human form, which is probably why Dom sent him to find Eames in the first place. It's a skill he's always had, drawing on his more wolfish skill set while retaining human attributes. Dom had prodded and tested him for hours before inviting him into the pack, "Change halfway—only the upper body, if you can. Now the head." Dom had been  _thrilled_  when Arthur met every demand, "Arthur, Arthur, I've never met a wolf who has such control. To have complete command over the change. You can be human, wolf, or any mix at will—it's incredible."

Arthur had shrugged. His abilities were only a practical matter to him. If he could enhance his sense of smell or put on enough muscle to throw down a man twice his size in broad daylight without giving away that he was a werewolf, well, he wouldn't complain or question it. And it wasn't like the others didn't have skills of their own: Dom might only have the options of being completely wolf or human, but he could switch between the forms faster than anyone Arthur had seen before. Dom's changing was like a lightning strike—impossibly quick and every bit as lethal.

Arthur wanders Mombasa until he picks up the trail. It takes hours and he's jetlagged and hungry, but he's there to get a job done. He starts in the likely areas—the more questionable sections of the city—and his efforts are eventually rewarded with a familiar whiff of shampoo, tobacco, and Eames.

Arthur second guesses himself when the scent leads him to the back of a hulking man, fingers absently rubbing two poker chips together. Arthur concentrates a little harder, increasing his sense of smell as much as he can without sprouting a snout in public, and inhales deep.

It's Eames—it has to be. It was a long time ago, but wolves don't forget the scents of people they worked in close quarters with. Arthur certainly doesn’t.

He says, too loud against his own ears even amidst the din of city sounds and rumble of other gamblers, "Eames."

Eames turns to face him, and Arthur is relieved that his nose hasn’t led him astray. Eames still has the same glinting eyes set in the same face and similarly styled hair. And the scent, of course, is  _exactly_  the same down to the type of shampoo. The startling change is that Eames' old frame, which would have been at home on any swimmer or model, has been traded in for bulky muscles around his chest, arms, and neck. It's enough of a difference to shock Arthur into speechlessness.

Arthur stares at Eames, mind strangely blank, until Eames folds a hand over his bicep—fingers almost touching—and drags Arthur off, quietly saying, "Let's go somewhere with less ears, shall we?"

Arthur’s wolf, those instincts that boil underneath the surface even in human form, flare up at the gentle force. His wolf says that any large male is a threat, especially a large male who already has a hold on him. It wants nothing more than to fight off the grip, put the offending wolf in his place. Well practiced at control, Arthur breathes steadily and wills himself calm.

Thankfully, Eames eases away as soon as they're out the door. He smiles apologetically, like he can sense Arthur's discomfort.

"Come on," Eames says, takes the lead with only the briefest nervous glance over his shoulder. Arthur follows.

Arthur is on his guard the entire way. His wolf remains close to the surface and hyper-aware of the strange city around him. At the same time he's preoccupied with dealing with the very contradictory reaction he's having to the unexpected breadth of Eames' shoulders. His human side can't help but admire while the wolf is still bristling. Ordinarily, Arthur wouldn't be intrigued, but there's something about Eames'  _physical change_  that has Arthur wanting to press him down and nip at those powerful shoulder blades.

They arrive at a rundown little motel minutes later. It’s nothing much to look at with slats instead of proper windows and faded paint. Eames heads directly for a specific door, waiting until Arthur passes through with the knob still in hand. Eames is asking questions the minute the door clicks shut:

"I assume Cobb sent you?"

"Yes."

"You sound so enthused," Eames says, arms crossed and skeptical.

Arthur shrugs, "It's an impossible job."

"Is that so? And whose opinion is that?"

"Mine," Arthur says, crossing his arms with a glare. "But Cobb needs this."

"Hmm, I heard that Cobb's fledgling pack was having a rough time of it, but surely you know altruism isn't likely to move my heart, Arthur." Eames attitude is an infuriating mix of apathy and derision. He's a perfect example of how lone wolves earn the sneers and snarls they get from pack wolves.

He answers, "No, I didn't think it would. That's where the obscene amount of money the client is paying us comes in."

"Oh? Tell me more."

"Before we get to that, I want to get a few things out of the way." Arthur rounds on Eames, stalking forward. There's an honest anger flaring up, probably reflected in his speech and movements. Eames stands his ground, but his body is a tense line, looking like he'd rather run than stay. "The money is enough that I know you'll be interested. But there are two conditions."

"Cobb's conditions?"

"Mine," he answers. Arthur squares his shoulders. It feels like he's on the edge of a fight, though it shouldn't. Eames hasn't backed up at all, but he's distinctly non-aggressive, despite the sarcastic tone. Even so, Arthur can’t shake his the too-aware sensation of the wolf under his skin, itching to get out. He clears his throat, "The first condition is that you don't mention, question, or interfere with pack issues. Cobb has enough problems without explaining them to you. The second—" He pauses, his voice going hoarse, "The second condition is that you try your best. It's an impossible job, but—like I said—Cobb needs this."

Eames chuckles, but it's a dark sound, "Are you asking me to not cut into Cobb's delusions, Arthur?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, which is probably more than enough of an answer.

"So what's this job anyway," Eames asks. "Mind you, I haven't agreed to anything. I'm not bound to these silly pack politics and loyalties after all. I enjoy the freedom of being discerning."

The rage that follows Eames' words is unexpected. Arthur tamps down on the emotion firmly. As levelly as he can, he says, "A fact I'm well aware of, Mr. Eames. It's an inception."

"Ah, and here I thought we were talking about something  _actually_  impossible." Eames turns away with his expression neutral, "I don't suppose you have a chemist yet?"

"Why?"

"There's a man here. Yusuf. He formulates his own versions of the compounds."

"Man or wolf?" Arthur asks, because the last thing he needs is another lone wolf to watch.

"Neither. But you can ask him yourself, if you're curious."

Eames packs efficiently. There's only a handful of objects he shoves into a travel bag from the room. Then, with a deferential nod, Eames leads the way through the Mombasa streets again. Yusuf turns out to be terrifyingly competent and utterly cagey about answering Arthur's questions. Arthur asks, by way of introduction, “So you’re a friend of Eames?”

Yusuf only smiles and answers, “Perhaps.”

Yusuf smells like magic, but not like wolf or anything else Arthur has ever met. He breaks down and asks, tactlessly, "What are you?"

"A great many things," Yusuf says. His amusement shows brightly in his eyes. "For instance: I am a male; I am a chemist for various illegal endeavors involving dreamshare; I am an inhabitant, for now, of Kenya—"

"You know what I mean,” Arthur says.

Yusuf grimaces at being interrupted. He turns to Eames, "If all werewolves are as humorless as this, I can see why you steer clear of them."

Eames laughs at that and nods, "Glad you agree."

This is doing nothing for Arthur's temper, but Yusuf turns back to him with a serious expression that mollifies him somewhat.

"In answer to your question, since I assume you'd like very much to throw a label on me and assess if I'm a threat to your pack—werewolves can be such very predictable creatures—then you're going to be disappointed. The best explanation I can offer is that a little magic runs in my family thats gives me an affinity for dreams and chemicals amongst other things. Further details are unimportant, because I pose no threat to you or anyone under your protection." He raises a questioning eyebrow, "Satisfied?"

Arthur isn't, but he nods anyway.

 

 

 

**Day Five**

Arthur takes them to the warehouse, acutely aware that Yusuf and Eames are trailing far enough behind that he can barely pick up on their hushed tones. He doesn't mean to, not really, but he shifts enough so that his wolfish hearing can pick up the conversation. It's more instinct than decision, really.

Yusuf is saying, "So Arthur is the alpha here?"

“No,” Eames answers, "That would be Cobb. You'll meet him shortly, I assume. Completely mad, if rumors are to be believed."

"But you've worked with him before."

"Yes. Awhile ago."

"He wasn't insane then?"

"Not anymore than the average power-hungry alpha wolf."

"But not like the others, right?" Yusuf asks, seeming concerned.

"No," Eames bites out grudgingly, "But I didn't work with them long."

They stop talking as Arthur stops at the warehouse door. Not much is different than when he left. There's a new scent, but it's so faint that it’s indecipherable. All Arthur can tell is that it's unfamiliar, which probably means that Cobb managed to recruit an architect in the past few days. The only other change is that the windows have been completely covered with thick blankets from the inside. This had never seemed liked a necessary security precaution before, but Arthur barely gives it a thought as he opens the door and gestures Eames and Yusuf into the building.

"What a gentleman," Eames says while looking at the hand Arthur is using to hold the door open. "And they say chivalry is dead."

Arthur hears Cobb before he sees him, "You're back! You brought Eames—and that chemist you mentioned?"

"Yusuf," Yusuf says, stretches his hand out to Cobb. Arthur is watching the interaction, still wary, when he catches sight of the fifth person in the warehouse. She looks innocuous in corduroy pants and a bright scarf, but by scent he knows immediately that the girl behind Cobb is the tiniest vampire he's ever seen—and certainly no less dangerous for her size.

"Cobb," he says, and it's a nearly unintelligible warning growl grating in his now only mostly human throat as his teeth sharpen instinctively.

"Oh, Arthur, I almost forgot. This is Ariadne—our architect."

It’s close outright insubordination, but Arthur yells: "Are you out of your mind?"

"Arthur," Dom says in the voice he always uses when he wants to quash an argument. It's one part condescension and two parts warning—all made more enraging in this instance because Arthur has heard that particular tone used most often against James and Phil.

Although not recently, obviously.

The right thing to do is to metaphorically show his belly and not push the issue. It's Dom's  _right_  to make the decisions, so Arthur doesn't say anything further even if his hackles are raised. He can submit to this, because he can't pretend to not know how reckless Dom has been getting. And if anyone is to blame, maybe it's Arthur's for consciously allowing Cobb’s progression from hope to desperation.

"This isn't going to be a problem?" Dom asks. He's carefully making eye contact with each of them one by one, but Arthur knows that the question is meant for him.

He manages to bite out his agreement around: "No, it's your call."

Ariadne smiles so that her two needle-sharp fangs are bared in a grotesque grin. It's either a form of disclosure—with the word 'vampire' still hanging unsaid—or an attempt to get under Arthur's skin. She says, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

 

 

 

**Day Six**

It may be impossible, but it’s a job like any other. Ariadne’s mazes are well suited to her personality: sharp, subtle, and too clever. She’s open with the group, insinuating herself into their lives with questions and comments like she’s always been there. She follows Cobb particularly closely, which may irk Arthur—letting a vampire trail alongside his pack leader goes against every instinct his wolf howls at him—but it’s been made completely clear that this isn’t the pack of before and he has no say in the matter.

Eames and Yusuf are a little harder to figure out. They show up to work together, a familiar camaraderie between them.

It leaves Arthur feeling a little out of place.

He observes everything, though. Yusuf and Eames may whisper to themselves, expressions serious and obviously not thinking about inception. And Cobb might make excuses to stay with the PASIV device every night, but it’s not like Arthur doesn’t  _notice_. He also painfully aware that all these people, despite their individual brilliance, are astoundingly horrible at caring for themselves.

They may not be pack, may not even want to  _be_  his pack, but it’s hardwired into him to at least try to provide for them.

He starts bringing in food in the long evenings. It’s take out and he places it on their desks without a word. Cobb barely seems to notice, Ariadne politely reminds him that doesn’t eat  _food_ , Yusuf can’t be pulled away from his various projects, and Eames, well, Eames raises his eyebrows and looks at the bag like it might contain a bomb.

“It’s Thai,” Arthur says, trying to be helpful.

“So I can smell,” Eames says, taking another whiff of the air. “Pad kee mao.”

“Yeah, it is.”

And that’s all the conversation Eames offers, so Arthur heads back to see if Yusuf needs to test his newest formulation again.

 

 

 

**Day Eight**

It's strange to be so on the fringe of something that was family before. Dom is keeping secrets, or things he thinks are secret, and more commonly turns to Ariadne than his own second, Arthur.

Arthur's not jealous—he's at a bit of a loss. He throws himself into the work, but Dom and Eames have hit some sort of stride where they fill in the blanks for each other's thoughts and plans. All Arthur has to offer are criticisms and questions, neither of which seem to go over particularly well, necessary as they are.

They're all too cunning for their own good—sharp around the edges and secretive. And Arthur likes them all anyway, despite himself.

He gently throws the night's dinner on Eames' desk. After finding untouched styrofoam containers the past two days in everyone else’s work spaces, it seems easier to bring the food to the one person who'll actually eat.

This time he pulls up a chair of his own, facing across from Eames, as he digs into today's selection (excellent pork dumplings from a tiny little place downtown).

Eames eyes him, but picks up his own dumplings without a word.

 

 

 

**Day Nine**

"I wasn't going to ask,” Yusuf asks out of the blue, “but what do you think you're doing?"

It takes a second for Arthur to catch up with the question, casting about for possible answers. Eventually he settles on the obvious: "Looking through Fischer's upcoming appointments." At Yusuf's distinctly unimpressed look, he adds more defensively than he means to, "His datebook is all in some weird shorthand. It might as well be in Greek or something."

"That's not what I was asking," Yusuf says.

"What  _were_  you asking?"

"I meant about Eames."

Of all the possibilities, this isn't anything Arthur would have guessed. "Is there something that needs to be done? Is there a problem?"

Yusuf rolls his eyes, "Don't play dumb, Arthur."

Then he walks off, leaving Arthur completely confused.

 

 

 

**Day Ten**

Yusuf's question—about  _what_  he still doesn't know—is still on his mind. There's not a thing wrong with Eames' forgery or work—the man is meticulous. Nor does he think it's a team squabble. Yusuf and Eames still more or less ramble in and out of the warehouse together, like a group of their own within the larger team.

So Arthur's a bit stumped.

Maybe the confusion makes him a bit paranoid, because it seems to him like Eames is watching him more closely today, eyes gleaming wolfish in a way Arthur can't quite pin down.

Arthur doesn't know what to make of it. At the same time, his inner wolf doesn’t care for any possible  _rational explanation_  and clamors for its own interpretation.

 _Hunger,_  it growls.

Hunger of the sort that makes Arthur imagine licking along that strong neck and shoulders, toothing along the lines of muscle, pressing down and dominating—

Obviously, his inner wolf doesn't really know a thing, because the statistical likelihood of that ever happening is probably around zero.

Shaking the thoughts off, he brings dinner again (from a shop that makes giant, steaming hot sandwiches and always includes a complimentary piece of cake on the side). He eats silently across from Eames, trying to read Fischer’s damn datebook, which is still mostly gibberish to him.

But his wolf still thinks Eames is looking at him, not the food, with devouring eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day Twelve**

Arthur drags himself to the warehouse clutching an uncharacteristic mug of coffee like a lifeline. Despite the caffeine, his body is heavy and his eyes are still burning from combined too little sleep and too many hours spent translating Fischer’s ridiculous schedule. Even so, he feels optimistic. Although, there wasn't any sign of any exploitable vulnerabilities in Fischer's schedule, there equally wasn't any sign of militarization or wariness either.

Of course, it’s today that the team’s tenuous peace finally breaks.

The warehouse looks the same as any other day from the outside, but as soon as he steps in the door his teeth clench together in reaction to the smell of fur, sweat, and anger in the air. Without a thought, he lets a bit of the change free, rending through his muscles to add upper body strength and enough to his senses to get him through a fight if necessary.

His first thought is that Saito must have sold them out—or that Fischer caught on to the plan and decided to preemptively strike. All the way down to his bones, he's braced for thugs and a messy fight. Maybe even the sort of fight that includes silver bullets, if they happen to know enough about who and what populates the dreamshare community.

But as Arthur scans the warehouse, it quickly becomes apparent that his worries are misplaced. There’s no unknown attackers. He only sees the team in an odd half-circle. Cobb is standing nose-to-nose with Eames while Ariadne is standing at Cobb's behind shoulder in a position that speaks of cautious support and possible intervention with her hidden strength. She would probably even be enough to keep the two apart if she put her mind on it.

It's the first time Arthur has ever felt a rush of gratitude for any vampire.

Surprisingly, Yusuf—the one of them Arthur can't help but think of as the most fragile in a room full of vampires and wolves—is in the middle of the impromptu battlefield. He's holding onto Eames' shoulder with one hand, shaking gently and saying something in low tones. Even Arthur's wolf-quality hearing can't quite make out his words. He only can hear the soothing tone. Beneath Yusuf's hand, Arthur can practically see Eames vibrating with uncomfortable energy, which causes something deep in his chest to twist unpleasantly. If he didn't know Eames, didn’t know that Eames existed on his own proudly and independently, Arthur would have said that it looks like Eames wanted to run.

Then again, Arthur thinks, Eames’ reaction isn’t so strange considering Cobb is one of the most alpha wolves Arthur has ever met. And Cobb's stance is pure aggression: chest forward, body angled, and eyes narrow. If he were in wolf form, his teeth would be bared. Usually that would be enough to cause Arthur to offer up his own submission, but his wolf isn't interested right now—a dangerous lack of self-preservation. Instead, he sees the fur that's started to sprout out of Eames' skin along the back of his arms and neck, sees Yusuf's hand twisting into the scruff of it desperately, and knows that this situation is about to get out of hand.

"This is the sort of thing  _you tell your team_ , you crazy bastard," Eames snarls.

"It's the only way," Cobb answers, but it sounds more like 'this is my team and this is the way I say it'll be done.'

"Three layers, Cobb? And what—it doesn't matter if a few eggs need to be cracked, so long as you get what  _you_  want in the end, hmm?" Eames pauses, voice falling into a hoarseness that’s closer to a growl, supernatural and wolfish, as his words slur and jaw starts to extend, "Oh, and by 'eggs', of course I mean your goddamn  _team and what little pack you have left_."

The fur is a wildfire across Eames' skin now. Beneath the sprouting fur, bones shift with an agonizing slowness into new positions, hips canting forward from human knees into the shape of wolfish, lean legs. Eames' eyes are wild as he still tries to stand upright despite legs no longer designed for it, like he never meant to start shifting at all.

It occurs to Arthur that he has maybe all of five seconds before Cobb could shift and tear out Eames' throat. At the rate Eames is shifting, he’d still be struggling through the change and completely vulnerable in an awkward half-human and half-wolf stage. Rationally, he doesn't think that Cobb would, but rationality is fading fast in the face of mere  _possibility_. Arthur knows Cobb  _could_  and that's enough.

It's a distinct feeling of panic that propels him across the room and right into the middle of the two without so much as a memory of how he got there or why he's on all fours. He's shoved Yusuf and Eames back so that he can turn on Cobb. Cobb looks at him in sheer, unfiltered shock.

And it's only then that Arthur realizes he's growling, low and dangerous in his throat. It echoes around the large space in the sudden silence.

Behind him he hears a whimper, but he doesn't take his eyes off Cobb for a second. By rights, Arthur’s actions have created a dilemma: Cobb needs to establish authority, reassert his position in the pack and straighten out the hierarchy that's been tossed into chaos by what could be interpreted as Eames and Arthur's challenge.

Cobb doesn't. He stands for a moment, aggression thrumming through his body language, but he doesn't say a word or move a muscle.

Then he walks away.

"I'll go after him,” Ariadne offers with a decisive nod to Arthur.

If Arthur were human, he would nod acceptance back, but she's gone before he can kick his brain into motion. He huffs another breath as a wolf, calming himself by force, and focuses on changing back. He imagines his human fingers extending out from the blunt paws and pink skin rather than charcoal gray fur. Meticulously visualizes each and every bit of wolf becoming human.

He snaps back into human like a rubber band stretched too thin—at least mentally. Shifting consumes a lot of energy. Being tossed from human to wolf and back again within the space of five minutes takes a toll. The two sides, human and wolf, aren’t quite as discrete as they should be. Instead the two sides mesh together so that wolf-instinct and human-thought run together in an uncomfortable mix.

Arthur sways unsteadily on his feet.

Yusuf looks at him warily, like Arthur might become rabid at any moment. It's only then Arthur notices that Eames is fully a wolf and a complete mess. Eames’ wolf is a light gray and stocky around the chest and neck. But all the confidence he exudes as a human is lost. The way Eames leans into Yusuf's knees is more reminiscent of nervous dog than wolf. In fact, his body language is all wrong. It's not even the wariness of a wolf who's deferring to a leader, but more like he's trying to curl into himself.

Arthur says, words foreign and strange against his tongue, "What happened?"

Yusuf nudges at Eames with his leg, but moving a wolf that doesn't want to be moved is a lost cause. Yusuf shrugs, "Cobb approached me about what sort of compound we would need for this job. You didn't mention that he wanted three layers or sedative."

This catches Arthur by surprise, "A sedative?"

"Yes. This is, ordinarily, the sort of thing one tells a team  _before_  they sign on."

"I didn't know."

Yusuf doesn't answer at first, looking Arthur over like he could detect a lie visually if one was told. After a beat, he says, "Maybe so. I told Eames and he," Yusuf gestures at the huddled wolf at his feet, "didn't appreciate Cobb withholding information."

"I see," Arthur says. Except he doesn't really. Arthur can’t make sense of it, because Cobb wouldn't lead him in blind like that. Cobb may be the leader, but it's always been Arthur's job to weigh all the threats and possibilities. It's a responsibility he can't do without full disclosure and full disclosure has never been an issue before.

 _One thing at a time,_  Arthur thinks.

He kneels down, looking at Eames face-to-face and trying to look unthreatening. "Eames, you can change back."

"About that, Arthur," Yusuf says, uncomfortably, "I think we need to talk."

Arthur looks back up to Yusuf. He says, "Okay, talk.”

"Eames can't understand you. Or at least I presume he can't, since he once told me that his wolf mostly takes over when he's like this."

"What?" Arthur can't imagine it. His wolf and human self are constantly divided, constantly in tension, but always existing in a delicate balance with the other.

"I won't tell Eames' story for him, but I will tell you this—if only so that you can understand him a little better in a situation like this," Yusuf waits before continuing, again looking at Arthur with that cutting look. "And I think you will keep it to yourself."

Arthur nods agreement rather than saying anything.

Yusuf takes a fortifying breath, then begins: "You’ve always know Eames as a forger. Perhaps the best of his field, with a myriad forms available to him within a dream. He can have any face he desires, any body he can imagine, and perfectly mimic anyone he wants to be. He can make anyone believe these things are the truth." He pauses to watch Arthur’s reaction. Arthur does his best to look attentive. Yusuf continues, "But this is only true in dreams. And perhaps not entirely unrelated to his predicament in reality. Here—outside of dreams—Eames is completely subject to the whim of his wolf. When the wolf wants to come, he cannot stop it. If the wolf does not want to come, he cannot call it on his own. Eames has no control."

"You’re saying he can't change back."

"Worse than that, Arthur," Yusuf says, with a streak of derision coloring his voice. "I don't think you understand. Not only does Eames not have control, but it wounds him deeply that he doesn't."

Arthur guesses, "That's why he forges. So he can have control—even if it's just a dream?"

"Don't oversimplify things."

"But you said—"

"More than I should have."

 _There's a piece of the puzzle missing_ , Arthur thinks. He asks, "Why is it a problem now when it hasn’t been before?"

"That isn't my place to say," Yusuf’s tone is final.

Arthur sighs and turns to Eames again. Eames’ ears are pressed less flatly to his head and he's starting to risk leaving Yusuf's side and migrate over towards Arthur, slowly gaining ground before retreating.

"So what do we do with him?"

"We wait."

"For how long?"

Yusuf only shrugs. Arthur doesn’t know whether to interpret the gesture. It could be either Yusuf doesn’t know or that he won't say.

A sharp poke at Arthur’s leg calls his attention. Eames nudges again, pressing his large muzzle against the bend of Arthur's knee, pleading eyes turned upward.

"Okay,” he agrees, still looking at Eames, “we wait."

Arthur means to stay awake until he can verify that Eames managed to get back to human form. Truly he does, but it's a lost cause. As soon as the adrenaline bleeds out, he's finds himself practically dozing on his feet. Resigned, he lies down on one of the lawn chairs while Yusuf hums a little over his notes and Eames paces the ground between the two—still very much a wolf. He only wakes up once when the chair lurches and groans at a large weight being added. Before he can snap to alertness, he feels the warm press of fur at his side. He places a gentle hand to the wolf's ribs, feeling deep breaths one after another through his palm, before falling asleep again.

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s alone.

The warehouse is still dimly lit, but it feels like evening. Not a sound or recent scent remains. No one other than him has been here for a few hours. He tells himself that it's a good sign. Yusuf wouldn't have let Eames leave the building unless he was bipedal again. And Yusuf wouldn't have left unless that was the case. Arthur hopes.

With a groan and a stretch, Arthur composes his mental ‘to do’ list so that he can salvage the situation with Cobb in the morning.

 

 

 

**Day Thirteen**

No one is in a good mood.

Ariadne is glaring at the pieces of her maze as if they personally offended her—and she’s shooting glares in Cobb's direction at intervals whether or not he's looking her way at the time. Cobb is pointedly ignoring  _everyone_. Especially Arthur. Eames and Yusuf have yet to show up.

And Arthur, well, he's pretending that the last fact doesn't worry him as much as it does.

"Cobb," he says, trying to not sound like he's looking for a fight and failing even to his own ears.

Cobb swivels his body to face Arthur but only answers with a clipped: "Yes?"

"About yesterday."

"It's not an issue."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Oh really? Because I'm getting a little curious about this sedative myself."

Either it's his imagination or Cobb tenses up, "I was going to bring it up. It's the only way to perform the inception."

For the first time, Arthur wonders who Cobb has become since Mal jumped. Without her for a tether, Cobb is drifting slowly into someone entirely different than he was before. The change was so gradual that Arthur didn't notice how far it had gotten until now. He realizes, painfully, that he doesn't trust Cobb.

No pack can move on without trust, he knows in his bones. No pack can move on when the alpha is trying to willfully destroy himself.

"There isn't a pack anymore is there," Arthur hadn't meant to say it. He had meant to keep his thoughts guarded close. The words hang between them, aimless and damning.

Cobb doesn't say anything, which is answer enough.

It makes sense to Arthur in retrospect. He had wondered why Cobb didn’t reasserted his authority, why the group dynamics have changed, why Cobb never seems to reach out and actually  _try_.

"I'm going to find Eames and Yusuf. Maybe I can salvage this mess," He says. Neither of them acknowledge that Arthur’s voice is a little strangled.

Arthur doesn't actually know where Eames and Yusuf are staying. Nor does he really have the energy or inclination to prowl around Paris until he picks up the scent. What he does have is a cell phone number, which he calls.

"Eames here."

"Where are you?"

"Arthur."

"Tell me you aren't already on a plane back to Mombasa or wherever the fuck," Arthur says.

"I'd be well within my rights, you know. I didn't sign up for the walking liability your dear leader has become," Eames answers with a lightness that can only be feigned.

"I want to talk in person."

Silence blares across the phone, louder than yelling. Arthur's heart ratchets up a beat. For a moment, Arthur is certain that Eames won't even justify the demand with an answer and instead he’ll hang up, disappear, and leave Arthur with the shambles of this job.

Eames doesn't. He gives a sigh, dramatized for Arthur's benefit, and says, "Your hotel?"

"You don't want to meet at yours?"

"Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin, darling."

He had only meant to offer Eames the territory advantage, not threaten to invade. But he lets it go. He says, "Fine. Meet you there in twenty."

Cobb doesn’t ask where he’s going when he leaves the warehouse and Arthur doesn’t volunteer any information.

Arthur arrives at the hotel to find Eames leaned against his door. He is surprised that Eames came without Yusuf. He hasn't quite figured them out yet. If someone were to tell him that they were sleeping together, he wouldn't be surprised. Then again, if someone were to tell him that they weren't, he wouldn't be surprised either. Arthur pushes the thought aside. He does the same with the next thought when his eyes want to linger on how Eames' shirt is undone at the collar or the sleeves that are rolled up past the elbow to expose the strong cords of arm muscle tapering into delicious wrists.

"You can start with offering more money," Eames says, nonchalant allows Arthur to open the door. "That is if you're begging me to stay. Getting another forger at this stage would be rather difficult."

Arthur nods. He shouldn't be so distracted when there’s such a high stakes job. He redirects his mental processes back to the issue at hand. He thinks that he should have taken some time to strategize about how to deal with Eames. He knows that Eames is loathe to turn down any payment, especially one as generous as Saito’s offer. He should remind Eames that sum is already ludicrous. Rather than anything practical or pragmatic, he wants to ask: ‘Are you all right?’

"Right," Arthur says instead, because he can't seem to collect his thoughts with Eames right there.

"Cobb already offered his full share to Yusuf. That is if the crazy bugger makes good on his word."

"He will," Arthur says. He doesn’t even know whether it's a kneejerk reaction to stand up for his pack, personal loyalty as Cobb's friend, or actual belief in Cobb's honesty that makes him certain. So he says it again, like the repetition will clarify: "He will."

"Well, that’s quite the job perk. What incentive do I get for staying?"

Arthur, to his own credit, doesn't desperately ask what Eames wants. He schools his expression, crosses his arms, and settles into the silence to wait Eames out.

A muscle under Eames' eye tics, but otherwise he seems undeterred by Arthur's scrutiny. He says, "You did ask me here, Arthur. It's only polite to keep up the conversation."

"Three quarters of my share."

Eames raises an eyebrow with a statement that is nearer to a question, "That's rather self-sacrificing of you considering the man didn’t feel the need to let you know that you’ll be risking your sanity as well as life and limb."

Arthur winces internally, "This is Cobb's last job." Cobb didn't say it, but Arthur knows Cobb well enough to know it’s true. "I'm going to get him home, finish things right."

"That sort of loyalty is dangerous to have."

“He was pack,” Arthur says. He must still be off-kilter from his confrontation with Cobb, from realizing that there isn't a pack to look out for anymore, because he stupidly asks, "What makes you so different, Eames? Don't you ever want to be apart of something? To belong somewhere? To have a pack to protect—and who’ll stand at your back?"

It's the question Arthur has always wondered: how can a lone wolf not suffer from being so alone? But now it's more immediate, breaking the surface because after Cobb goes back Arthur sees that fate—unwanted as it is—for himself.

There's anger in Eames' tone, harsh and undisguised, "Perhaps I'm not enough of a masochist to put up with alphas the likes of Cobb. If 'pack' means sacrificing yourself purely for the gain of one, I'm better off on my own."

Anger spikes in Arthur too, driven by the recent hurt. Arthur says, "You can't fight biology, Eames. Wolves  _need_  a pack."

"You don't know anything,” Eames snarls.

The disagreement simmers between them, but loses strength through the silence. The anger subsides, leaving Arthur feeling hollow. He asks, "Are you staying or going?"

"I'll let you know tomorrow," Eames says, going for the door, "One way or the other."

 

 

 

**Day Fourteen**

The next day, Eames and Yusuf show up at the warehouse. Arthur watches and then follows their lead by pretending nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.

 

 

 

**Day Fifteen**

Every interaction is strained at best: Eames barely will look in Arthur's direction and every glance he gives Cobb is steeped in a deep bitterness. Plus, Ariadne keeps catching Arthur's gaze in shared sympathy. Arthur feel all the more isolated amidst the group. He goes through the steps, continues to read through Fischer’s damn book, and makes stilted dream-related conversation while he thinks of himself in a world without a pack, without a group of individuals willing to stand with him, without anyone who understands.

He contemplates himself traveling to all those cities he traced Eames to and he wonders what he would do in each on his own. He thinks,  _Free to travel, but for what purpose?_

Yusuf tosses two Styrofoam containers on his desk with a sound of mild disgust that evening, surprising Arthur from his maudlin thoughts. The containers sitting in front of him match the one still in Yusuf's hand. "They’re from that sandwich place you like," Yusuf says like it's an explanation that actually makes sense. "Go eat with Eames."

Arthur picks up the food and delivers the one that smells like steak to Eames, since he knows Eames would prefer it, and keeps the chicken sandwich for himself. Eames looks at the sandwich gratefully and devours it in seconds.

"Hungry?" Arthur can't help but laugh.

Eames licks a drip of sauce from his bottom lip pointedly, "You have no idea." Arthur's sure that it's meant in jest as a buddy-buddy forgiveness sort of thing, but he hears echoes of Eames' cold anger in the hotel room saying, 'You don't know a thing.'

 

 

 

**Day Sixteen**

What little progress was won the previous day is nearly lost when Eames makes a waspish comment and Cobb snaps angrily back at him.

Arthur's patience is nowhere near the level it needs to be in order to deal with their cummulative shit though, so he looks at them both, dead serious and out of patience, saying, "Quit arguing. Let's move on."

The shocking thing is that they do. Cobb even musters up enough shame to look a little abashed.

 

 

 

**Day Seventeen**

The plan is nearly together. All they need is an opening. Eames and Cobb are even tossing ideas back and forth in manner that is both productive and civil.

Arthur is pleased that things are running smoothly. They don't need to be a pack—that would be asking the impossible—but they do need to work as a team for this to work.

He doesn't notice Ariadne at his shoulder, until she bumps him gently to get his attention.

"Are you doing okay?"

He looks at her, brow furrowed, "Me?"

"Yeah, you."

"Doing great. Why wouldn't I be?"

She laughs, quiet and fond, like he's said something truly amusing.

Arthur doesn't ask what she found funny, realizing that he probably wouldn't like the answer, so instead he responds, "Why are you here, anyway?"

Ariadne tilts her head thoughtfully. She says, "Cobb showed me what dreaming could be. Before you brought Yusuf and Eames."

"Impressed you?" Arthur tries to imagine Cobb really in his element, showing a new dreamer the ropes and enjoying every second with that wild abandon he used to have. The mental image won't quite develop into something concrete, even trying to build it from memory.

"It's," she pauses, studying him out of the corner of her eye, "It was pure creation."

Arthur nods because he understands. He loves the paradoxes and possibilities of dreams more than the creation or construction aspect, but he can understand the draw.

"I have a proposal."

He turns to her fully, curious despite himself, "What sort of proposal?"

"I'll babysit Cobb and you take care of the rest."

"What—"

"Don't pretend he doesn't need it. He may be your friend or your pack leader or  _whatever_ —honestly, I've never been too into the werewolf politics thing—but right now there needs to be someone watching out for  _everyone_  and, sorry to say, it can't be him."

 

 

 

**Day Eighteen**

Inception hangs over their heads. Cobb and Eames have almost won Arthur over into believing that the job might actually be a success. How those two ended up on the same optimistic side, Arthur will never know. But they both get a similar gleam in their eye when talking about the challenge of convincing Fischer, excitedly discussing the possibilities and likelihoods.

Frankly, they’re in their element like this. And Arthur loves being able to be apart of it—gathering the useful security information, protecting them as they do their thing. He’s never been a dreamer like Cobb has been a dreamer—in love with the potential of a dream for the sake of the dreaming itself—but he can appreciate the art of what they do. He wouldn’t be in dreamshare otherwise.

He sidles up to Eames’ desk that evening with a list of questions regarding the Browning forgery. It’s comfortable in the way habit often is. Arthur hands Eames the box of food, Eames gives it a sniff and guesses at the contents and then they fall into conversation.

Arthur’s dedicated to the Fischer job, but he looks forward to these evening rituals most of all. When the work starts to drift to the side and personalities start bleeding through the wear of the day.

“Browning,” Eames says, words rolling around his mouth thoughtfully, “Browning is an interesting character in this drama the Fischers have going. But the forge should be simple enough, Fischer will believe it, no question.”

Arthur tilts his head. He doesn’t doubt Eames for a second. However, his mind does turn to Yusuf’s explanation, the sparse explanation hinting at Eames’ motivations beyond money.

“Forgery suits you,” he offers.

Eames leans back in his chair and makes a ‘hmm’ sound in his throat. He says, “I suppose it does. I’ve played the extractor from time to time and even done a bit of architect work, but...”

“But you’re drawn to forging,” Arthur finishes, guessing.

Eames shrugs in a broad, dismissive gesture that shows off the breadth of his shoulders and the taper of his waist distractingly.

“Is it,” Arthur’s words catch in his throat as he thinks better of what he’s saying.

He’s too late, though. Eames latches on to the aborted question. His eyes narrow and he asks, “Is it what, Arthur?”

“The forging. Is it because of your wolf?”

Eames’ expression closes like a door, final and unmistakable, not that Arthur expected anything else.

“Eames,” Yusuf says, placing his palm on Eames’ shoulder. Despite all his resolve, Arthur can’t stop looking at the hand so casually placed on Eames’ body, can’t quite convince his eyes to drag up and actually look at  _Yusuf_  rather than that hand.

Yusuf takes no notice as he addresses Eames, “First, you should share some of whatever that is with me. It smells delicious. Second, I could use a bit of help. Over there.”

Eames huffs irritably at his friend’s appearance—or at Arthur’s question—or something. Possibly all of the above, judging by the way his sullen glare slides over Arthur and lands on Yusuf.

He puts on an affected, long-suffering tone, “One, get your own food, Yusuf. Christsake. Two,  _if I must_.”

Yusuf draws Eames away with little more trouble, but it’s Arthur Yusuf makes eye contact with as they go. Within minutes, he can hear the muffled sounds of their private argument.

Ariadne and Cobb filter out, for once not staying later than everyone else, secretive and defensive. Arthur packs up his own work, and he decides to leave Yusuf and Eames to it.

Whatever it is, he’s obviously not invited or wanted.

He dreams that night of running on four legs, circling a wolf that he knows is Eames from scent alone who is forever heading away from him, and then using paws and muzzle to draw in close—

The wolf has this dream, Arthur corrects himself.

 

 

 

**Day Nineteen**

His wolf is too close to the surface the next day. From waking to walking in the door, Arthur itches with the memory of the dream and sweeps the room visually, eyes locked on Yusuf with unjustified anger. Yusuf is bent over a notebook, gnawing at a pen absently, and completely unaware. Arthur’s teeth immediately feel sharp and eager.

“Arthur,” Eames says, obviously having had waited for Arthur at the door. “We need to talk.”

“That’s ominous,” Arthur manages around the parcel of issues that Eames really, really doesn’t need to know about.

Eames rolls his eyes, “C’mon.”

Arthur follows, aware that they’re making a beeline to the back of the warehouse where Yusuf is still sitting. Yusuf finally looks up when they’re about two yards away. Arthur’s wolf gleefully notes that Yusuf wouldn’t be a match for him, couldn’t possibly be with such dull instincts and soft, human skin.

“Well,” Yusuf says, voice flat and unamused, “this is only going to get worse before it gets better.”

Yusuf drops the well-chewed pen and presses at his eyes tiredly. He shoves the small notebook towards Eames and Arthur.

Eames picks it up curiously.

Meanwhile Arthur is managing to shove down his wolf and completely disconcerted that it’s taking so much effort. They live in a balance, not a war—but the wolf is surging and struggling in his mind. He licks his teeth to verify they’re all perfectly flat before opening his mouth to ask, more directed at Eames than Yusuf, “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Yusuf answers.

Eames grunts in agreement, still making thoughtful faces at whatever he’s reading.

“If this is about Fischer or the sedative, we need to call Ariadne and Cobb over.”

“No,” Eames interjects, too quick, “It’s not about Fischer. Well, only peripherally.”

“Are you planning to beat around the bush all day, Eames?” Yusuf asks.

On the very last bit of patience, Arthur breaks in. “Can we hurry this along?” At this rate, he’ll need to get out of this small space, go for a run, take a shower, anything to allow his mind back on the actual task in front of them.

“If you won’t, I will,” Yusuf says, still talking over Arthur. This time there’s the slightest bit of a threat in his tone.

Possibly, this is what pushes Arthur towards the edge. Anger registers animalistic, almost sub-vocal, “Someone. Tell me.” He barely manages to bite off the threat that his wolf so badly wants to push out between them, visions of Yusuf’s torn throat in his head in such detail that Arthur blinks.

Eames and Yusuf exchange a look. Yusuf sort of raises an eyebrow in a ‘Well?’ expression while Eames scowls.

“Fine, I’ll start the ball rolling then,” Yusuf sighs dramatically. “The short of the story is that you’ve basically forced Eames into heat and, despite my best efforts, the suppressants I personally designed are only marginally working at this point. We had been pursuing more permanent chemical options, but—” Yusuf opens his hands in a vague gesture, “no such luck.”

Intellectually, Arthur realizes this explains the unusual aggressiveness of his wolf. Dumbly, the only thing he thinks of to say is, “But Eames is a beta.”

“Not quite,” Yusuf sighs again. “Eames, explaining really should be your job. The bounds of friendship only go so far.”

“Fine.” The scowl on Eames’ face deepens further as he crosses his arms defensively. He speaks like it’s a challenge, “So I’m an omega, always have been.”

Arthur nods, still utterly lost. “And how am I to blame again?”

At this Yusuf laughs, “You really don’t know? Bringing Eames food, offering protection—Eames' wolfier side basically took it like a courtship. It was all very romantic, really.”

Eames says, cutting off any response Arthur might have eventually come up with, “I don’t get them often—it helps that I’m not around other wolves much. It can last around seven days. Give or take.”

Then it clicks. Arthur says, “The Fischer job.”

“Could be compromised.”

“At the very least, it would be inconvenient for Eames to be out of commission for a full week,” Yusuf adds, thoughtfully.

“What other option is there?” Arthur asks, already visualizing the meticulous planning gone to waste, how impossible it would be to find an alternative time slot in Fischer’s impenetrable schedule.

“There,” Eames begins, pausing uncomfortably, “isn’t much by way of options. Either I’m out for the week. Or.”

“Or?”

“Or someone helps me out. Cuts down the entire thing by days.”

Arthur’s brain grinds to a halt. “You mean—”

“Yes, Arthur, keep up,” Eames sneers.

“Ah,” Yusuf says, getting to his feet, “That’s my cue to leave.”

“Okay,” Arthur tries, honestly tries, to pull back to his rational mind for the situation. He smothers the wolf—clamoring for attention and suggesting  _how much_  Arthur could help Eames—down just enough to ask, “So what do you need from me? Time off? My blessing?”

“How on earth are you this obtuse?” Eames steps forward, letting his hands drop to his sides, “It would be convenient for all parties if you helped me through. I’m saying you should fuck me.”

One part of Arthur is offended at ‘convenient,’ but most of him—and all of his wolf—thinks this is a brilliant plan.

Which is exactly why it takes all his willpower to muster up:

“No, this is a terrible idea.”

“What? You want me to ask  _Cobb_?” Eames bites out in a growl. “How many options do you think there are, Arthur? I’m sure as hell not willing to let this job fall through because of a bit of  _biology_.”

“But—”

“I’d ask Yusuf if I could; all I have here is you.”

Any resolve Arthur had managed to cobble together, that wavering barricade between him and the wolf, crumbles.

“Now?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Eames licks his lips, “Today’s a lost cause. I—” He stops and corrects himself, “The wolf won’t wait.”

Arthur knows that’s an important sentence, a concession of weakness, but his body and wolf are the decision-makers at this stage. He leans forward, just to scent Eames and allow himself to notice all the things he had willfully put to the back of his mind before.

“Not here,” Eames says. “Your hotel, one hour.”


	3. Chapter 3

Eames leaves the warehouse with the door banging behind him. Immediately, the air seems clearer, crisper in his absence. Arthur breathes in that clarity with large gulps. Each breath clears his thoughts, lifting the wolfish overlap he hadn’t even realized was there.

Arthur shivers, either from the air or from the shame of his precarious control.

Cobb says something, clapping a hand over Arthur’s shoulder, and minutes must have passed with Arthur doing nothing more than standing and staring at the door after Eames.

“Arthur,” Cobb says. “Arthur, you all right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur answers, voice scraping out from behind his too-acute awareness of his own blunt teeth and dry mouth. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Arthur only nods, but Cobb removes his steadying hand.

“So you’re going then,” Cobb says.

“Yes.”

Cobb bites his lip, and Arthur wonders if he wants to say more. He doesn’t, so Arthur fumbles his keys out of his pocket with shaking hands.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Arthur promises. “Fischer is still a priority.”

Cobb shakes his head, “Do what you have to do.”

 

 

 

Arthur’s wolf writhes under his skin as he arrives at the hotel. It paces inside of him, thudding in his chest like a second heartbeat, scenting Eames—faint though he may be. It only grows more rapid as soon as Eames’ scent grows rich and thick right outside the door. The scent would give Eames away, but the easy give of the door handle leaves a warm thrill through Arthur at the thought of Eames letting himself into the room. Arthur’s room.

There, outside his own door, Arthur stops.

His wolf rebels at the hesitation—a rebellion that grips Arthur by the throat like an electric surge, targeted and nearly debilitating. It’s all Arthur can do to lean forward, catching his breath with his face pressed against the cool wood. He feels out of joint, like his brain is disconnected from body and even further disconnected from his wolf.

“Eames,” he says, muffled. After a second, the door shifts as Eames goes for the handle. Arthur snatches it, holding it firm and unmoving from the other side.

“Hold on, just hold on,” he huffs, breathing still anything but even. He knows, with certainty, that his control will go from shambles to ruin without that thin barrier.

Eames lets out an annoyed huff. He answers, “What are we waiting on exactly?”

Arthur swallows, tries to retain his clarity, “There’s a right way to do this.”

“There’s not a whole lot of wrong ways.”

“Don’t. I—I know it’s hard to think straight. In the warehouse—” Arthur pauses, amends his faltering sentence: “I want to know you want this. If you’re going to lie back and suffer through for the job, I’d rather take the delay and deal with Saito.”

Eames sighs audibly, “Heaven save me from your conscience. Yusuf damn well  _chaperoned_  while we discussed this—what more could you need?”

“More than that, apparently.”

The silence is so long, so heavy that Arthur takes it as an answer. He’s trying to accomplish the sheer act of will that will get his feet to pry himself away from the door when it opens under his loose hand, nearly tumbling him into the room headlong. Arthur manages to catch his feet less than an inch away from Eames. The door clicks shut behind him unnoticed.

Somehow, Arthur manages to remain perfectly still while his fingers burn to touch: “Eames.”

“For a criminal, you really do have a worrying number of morals.”

Arthur waits, shaking with the effort. Eames isn’t much better, face pale and eyes glassy, but there’s a rigidness to him like he’s caught between reaching forward or taking a step back.

“There are things you don’t know and, frankly,” Eames says, annoyed and making no effort to hide the fact, “don’t need to know. I want this, I  _need_  this, but it’s...” He stops and makes an incomprehensible gesture.

“You’re uncomfortable with it.”

“You could say that.”

“Then we should take the delay. Like I said.”

“You’re being obtuse. Again.” Eames says, voice low and steady, “If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have asked. Look, I’m giving my full and honest consent—that’s going to have to suffice. I can’t promise enthusiasm.”

Eames casually flicks open the topmost button of his shirt open with deft fingers, then the next. His hands are far steadier than they should be. Methodically, Eames undoes the cuffs of the shirt after. Then he shucks the whole mess—undershirt wrapped around the dress shirt—over his head with most buttons ignored. The heap lands against the wall.

And Arthur is completely unable to tear his eyes away from all the skin revealed.

At Arthur’s lack of response, Eames asks, “All right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, voice a barely audible rasp, “But if you want to stop, you say ‘stop.’ Or if you don’t like something, you say so.”

“I think I can manage that. But do you honestly think you’ll be able to?” Eames asks, doubtfully.

“I will. I’ll figure out how.”

“That’ll have to do, then.”

Again, Arthur is breathless in a moment where brain, body, and wolf fail to meet. He gasps, and reaches out. “Can I—?”

Eames’ serious expression cracks open the tiniest bit, “That was my point. Go on.”

Arthur has thought about this since he picked Eames up in Mombasa. He’s imagined the long stretch of muscle at Eames’ neck, the breadth of his chest, the muscled abdomen. Too easily, he can imagine the feel of his hands dragging along those swathes of skin. Or how Eames would feel under his teeth, lips, and tongue.

Now, he has more than permission to touch; he has a full invitation.

At the first touch of skin to skin, an immense feeling of relief flood through Arthur. He sweeps his hand slowly from the corded strength of Eames’ wrist up his arms to rest at the base of Eames’ neck. Each inch of touch sparks through Arthur, both balm and kindling the  _want_. So he presses firmly into the knot of Eames’ shoulder just to feel it. The length of his hand wraps over Eames’ perfectly sloped shoulder, brushing against his collar bone.

Eames sucks in a sharp breath.

Arthur grins and leans in to press his lips to the skin previously occupied by his hands. A shudder runs through Eames so strong that Arthur feels the skin against his mouth shiver. He skims his lips along the long slope of Eames’ neck until they’re pressed front to front and he can lick at the shell of Eames’ ear. And Eames leans into it. Arthur presses his face in, nuzzling, and breathes Eames in.

The smell of Eames—the all mind-numbing pheromone arousal—is so perfectly enticing. Arthur unleashes his wolf the slightest bit, allowing only enough shift to heighten his senses. The raw experience, bolstered by the wolf, is almost overwhelming.

Eames pushes him away: “No.”

Arthur stumbles, jarred. He manages a sloppy, “What?”

“Don’t think that I don’t know about your little wolf tricks. Even if there weren’t rumors—which, sorry to say, there are, darling—it’s hard to imagine how else you managed to find me in Mombasa, considering I've managed to shake every other tail before you.”

Arthur’s cheeks go hot. He says, “It’s only a little bit—the senses. Hearing, smell.”

“None of that,” Eames says. “This has to be as close to human as I can get it.”

He’s having a hard time really parsing the meaning of Eames’ words, but Arthur remembers the warm curl of a terrified wolf against his side and thinks he might understand nonetheless. He forces the shift back until every particle of him is human. The process feels agonizingly slow. Once fully human again, he holds out his arms straight at his sides as if for inspection. “Okay.”

Eames eyes tighten around the edges, but he nods agreement.

“Lie back,” Arthur suggests, using his body as much as his words to get Eames where he wants him. Eames shirtless against the sheets is a sight.

“Once upon a time,” Eames says, eyes dazed and voice clouded, “I thought you were a beta.”

Arthur makes a ‘hmm’ noise against the underside of Eames’ jaw. Wolf hierarchy is a less concrete thing than most non-wolves would believe. He’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s changing. Cobb’s circumstances required him to grow into a new role.

“Yusuf thought you were,” Eames continues. “An alpha, that is. Right off. I didn’t see it. I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”

Not bothering with a response—because what can you say when someone is casually talking about your world falling down—Arthur kisses, licks, and bites his way down Eames’ stomach until he’s level with the tented front of Eames’ slacks. It’s short work to undo them and slide them down Eames’ legs.

“But I caught on eventually.” Eames talks all the way through it, words going pitchy and whiny. “But you’re never content to meet expectations, are you. Thought this would be all,” Eames stops, hissing as Arthur nuzzles his cock, gives an experimental lick, “Thought you’d be all aggressive and overbearing. You know the sort.”

Arthur goes right on past Eames’ cock, and Eames whines in response. Encouraged, Arthur trails his mouth, rounded in a smile, down Eames’ calf slowly, teasingly. He chases after with his hands, digging into the muscles firmly until he’s all the way to one of Eames’ feet, cradled in his palms. He presses lips to the protruding bone at the ankle.

“Any day now, Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur doesn’t know whether to interpret the lilt of the words as irritation or amusement or something in-between. He works his way back up the leg, still slow and steady even as his wolf feels more and more frantic with the wait.

He waits to answer until he’s against the cut of Eames’ hip, “You wanted this human. This is what human-me wants to do.” And it’s true, because the  _wolf_  would already have Eames on all fours and brutally fucked, no niceties about it.

Eames snorts, “Still, you can move it along any day now.”

Arthur scrapes his fingers across the tender back of Eames’ thigh to watch him squirm. Eames  _does_  squirm, falling from careful disdain to panting need.

“Arthur,” he gasps. “C’mon. Please.”

Arthur obliges. One hand moves Eames’ leg up and out of the way as the fingers from the other press into the unbearable heat.

“You’re so wet already,” Arthur says.

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”

Arthur hauls him closer, “I could slip in now, easy as anything. Fuck you like this.”

“Then  _do it_  dammit!”

“Okay, okay,” he agrees, and finally kisses Eames. Eames open to him immediately, licking and nipping. Greedy hands push at Arthur’s clothing. When claws rather than human fingers shred his sleeves, he hushes Eames, “Hey, I’m right here. Whatever you need.”

Eames nods. Arthur tosses off the ruined shirt and everything else as quickly as he can manage. When Eames’ hands clutch at his shoulders, they are back to blunt fingertips.

“Tell me exactly what you want. Make it dirty, convince me.”

“Arthur,” Eames whines again, frustrated. Sentences might be beyond him at this point. He twists in Arthur’s grip until he’s flipped so that his face is buried in the pillows and his ass his presented, the picture of wolfish submission. “Fuck me. Please.”

There’s nothing Arthur would like to do more. He presses kisses, hurried and inaccurate, to the side of Eames’ jaw, his ear. Arthur strokes himself, but doesn’t really need further prep—the pheromones and Eames have done their job.

So he lines up, pushes into Eames with one hand guiding, and tries to keep it slow. The impossible heat of him threatens to be too much. It’s pleasure so hard and sharp that it  _hurts_. Eames gasps under him, fingers clenching into the sheets.

“More,” Eames says—begs.

Arthur is lost then. His wolf takes the reigns. He mouths Eames’ shoulder blades and fucks him as hard as he dares. And the heat is still too, too much.

Events blur together at that point, hazy and timeless. He will remember a few things with absolute exactness later: Eames getting so fucking wet that Arthur’s cock slips out, Eames’ following grunt of irritation, and  _Eames’ hand_  grasping Arthur roughly and putting him back in himself; Eames pressing his shoulders up into Arthur’s chest like he wants nothing more than Arthur to pin him down but won’t say so; Eames’ howl, bordering between wolf and human, every time he comes; how Eames, when he does have words, never says ‘stop’ but always says ‘more,’ ‘please,’ and—best of all—‘Arthur.’ At the end of it, Eames had even said—so hushed and fragile—'yours.'

It goes on forever. They sleep eventually with their bodies entwined.

 

 

 

**Day Twenty-One**

When he wakes, Arthur has never been so sore in his life. He’s alone in the bed, even though he can smell Eames  _everywhere_.

“Eames?” He reaches out even as he opens his eyes to see Eames standing in the middle of the room, sliding on his mussed pants and shirt. Eames paws at the wrinkles in the fabric uselessly. Arthur feels fond. He doesn’t know if it’s his human or his wolf—and he doesn't care.

"Don't look at me like that," Eames says, not looking at Arthur.

Arthur chuckles, "Look at you like what?"

"Like a wolf looking at a henhouse."

"What time is it?" Arthur asks, stretching out. "You could stay a little longer, clean up properly, and we can go back together."

“I think not,” Eames answers.

Arthur feels naked and foolish. He says, "Okay, I'll see you there."

"I don't think you quite get it, Arthur." Eames turns, cold eyes on Arthur for the first time since Arthur awoke. His words are pointed, "This was fun."

“Fun?” Arthur echoes, confused.

“I’d say 'necessary,' but that seems a little rude while your come is still leaking out of my arse, hmm?”

Arthur swallows at the bile in his throat. Eames keeps looking at him, eyes unchanging, and Arthur is pinned under that gaze. It takes him too long to realize that long tufts of fur have sprouted along his bare arms—and continues to grow down the expanse of his arm in neat little waves. The feeling is familiar and profoundly disturbing. Humiliation is an ugly thing. Arthur covers the unwanted fur with his hand. He tries, desperately tries to tamp down on the wolf to halt the change.

For the first time in his life, Arthur has no control of the balance between his two selves.

“Eames,” he says, shakily.

Eames looks horrified.

The wolf rails inside Arthur, distorting his throat and hands into a mesh of wolf-human qualities.

“You,” Arthur grates out, barely coherent in a less-than-human throat, “You should go.”

Eames hesitates, “Arthur—”

“No. You’ve made yourself clear. I get it,” Arthur says, satisfied that he can still manage to speak, even if he still sounds inhumanly hoarse. “Go.”

Arthur clenches his eyes shut. He needs to focus. Still straddling the precipice between human and wolf, he can only focus on turning each strand of fur into smooth human skin, reforming his shifting bones, calming his agitated instincts.

By the time Arthur can open his eyes again, the wolf is firmly caged again.

And Eames is gone.


End file.
